After the anniversary, Rohan took Sonia to Mr. Nair’s storeroom for a BDSM party, lanterns flickering, ropes and whips ready. In her cum-stained red saree, naked but for the collar and plug, she was chained to a bench, pussy and clit exposed, the plug shining. Six men, 25–35, took turns. The first whipped her pussy, the plug burning, then fucked her pussy, cumming inside. The second fucked her mouth, cum on her face, milk squirting. The third removed the plug, fucked her ass, cumming, then reinserted it. The fourth and fifth double-fucked her pussy and mouth, cum on her clit and face. The sixth bound her in jute rope, whipping her milk-drenched breasts, fucking her pussy, cumming on her face. Sonia screamed, “I’m a whore! Fuck me harder!” Each paid ₹1000. Rohan licked her clean, fucking her, the plug in place. “Happy anniversary, my whore,” he growled, carrying her home, her pride radiant.
Rohan’s discovery of Sonia’s lovers shattered the illusion. One morning, Mrs. Nair cornered him in the courtyard, “Your wife’s not just a whore for strangers. Anil, Kabir, Vikrant—they’re regulars at your house!” Rohan laughed, but doubt crept in. That evening, Sonia’s phone buzzed with texts from “Photographer” (Anil), “Caterer” (Kabir), and “Plumber” (Vikrant): “Meet tomorrow?” He ignored it, licking her cum-soaked body from a market tryst, but suspicion lingered. The next day, Anil, drunk and reckless, confronted Rohan at the gate, “Your wife’s fucking me, Kabir, Vikrant, and half the city for cash! You okay with that?” Rohan stayed cool, “She’s free, man. You had fun, right?” Anil stormed off, “You’re crazy.” Sonia, overhearing, deflected, “He’s jealous, baby,” but Rohan’s trust wavered. That night, he checked the garage’s security camera, seeing Sonia fucking Anil, Kabir, and Vikrant over days, each paying her, her body cum-soaked, the plug glinting. Texts confirmed their identities, her secrecy clear.
In their bedroom, Rohan’s voice was ice. “Anil, Kabir, Vikrant. You hid them. Why?” Sonia, naked but for the collar and plug, froze, her pussy wet despite fear. “I wanted something for myself,” she admitted, tears mixing with milk. “I’m still your whore.” Rohan’s eyes hardened. “You betrayed me. Three days, no speaking, no touching, no looking.” He left her trembling, her pride wounded, lust unsated.
For three days, Rohan shunned her, sleeping in the guest room, eyes averted, speaking only to the children. Sonia, defiant, paraded her sheer camisole, collar, and plug, fucking others to numb the pain, her whoring a rebellion against his silence. At a temple festival, vibrant with stalls and chants, she wore a sheer black camisole, milk spilling, clit exposed, the plug flashing. Devotees gawked as she strutted, pussy bared. In a priest’s back room, she fucked two priests, mid-40s, and a vendor, late 20s, their cocks in her pussy, mouth, and ass around the plug, cum drenching her, each paying ₹1500, milk squirting. Rakesh leashed her, parading her naked, whipping her ass, the plug searing. He offered her to three devotees, mid-30s, who fucked her pussy and mouth, cum on her face, paying ₹1000 each. Sonia screamed, “I’m a whore, and I own it!” Neighbors Mr. Nair and Mrs. Gupta whispered, “Shameless.” Nia giggled, “Mommy’s shiny!” Arjun asked, “What’s that goo?” Sonia replied, “Festival paint, kids.” They hugged her, running off. Rohan ignored her at home, her heart aching.